


For I Am A Fool

by Purplesauris



Series: Fool Me Once [2]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate POV, Angst, Din is a very simple man, First Meetings, M/M, POV Din Djarin, SPOILERS FOR THE MAIN FIC, Sparring, These are just scenes that I felt needed to be fleshed out and written from Din's POV, This is a lot of introspection, Yearning, and gayness, can you tell he grew up on tatooine?, luke is a weirdo, mentions of wounds, oh I forgot, snippet series, this is technically a rewrite?, yall wanted at LEAST one angst scene so here it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29884248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purplesauris/pseuds/Purplesauris
Summary: He's risen to power on Mandalore, and the Republic has set their sights on him. They send a representative with the intent to bring them into the fold, and Din has to weather his attention.(AKA this is just scene retellings from Din's POV)
Relationships: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker
Series: Fool Me Once [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2197209
Comments: 12
Kudos: 140





	For I Am A Fool

**Author's Note:**

> I was tossing this idea around in my head for a while, and with the encouragement of friends in my server and a wonderful anon on tumblr who suggested scenes, here we are! There will be two chapters- this first one deals with scenes from chapters 1-9 that I thought needed to be written. The second will deal with chapters 10-18, so that won't be released until after the full fic finishes. If there are ANY scenes yall think I should explore, please feel free to let me know in the comments or on my tumblr <3

=================================================================================================

The delegate from the New Republic was supposed to be here today, and he’d debated having the ship turn back around. The last thing he wanted, the last thing he needed was a New Republic presence on Mandalore, poking around and being nosy. 

But The Armorer had cautioned that making enemies while rebuilding was unwise, so he’d bit his tongue and allowed them to come. They were sending some kind of commander- some hot shot from the rebellion that he knew was more to impress him than anything else. There was a slim chance that they’d do so. Already embarrassment curdled his stomach- he didn’t know what he’d do if they tried to grovel.

He hears them coming before the doors open- the heavy, balanced steps of people in armor, and between them, something different. Something light. Whoever walks between his people walks like a dancer, steps whispering, and he narrows his eyes. He sits up a bit straighter, though he doesn’t move his head from his hand as the doors open. His careful nonchalance is broken as soon as he spots the man who comes in. His back goes ramrod straight, forcing him from his slouch, and he stares, and stares. The representative sweeps into the room with those too light steps, but his eyes are downcast- disoriented.

He’s slim, sandy blonde hair swept back carefully, and the black that hugs him is stark against the light in the room. He dips into a bow, hand over his heart, and he allows himself to look just a moment more. To collect his thoughts and loosen the tightness in his throat. He doesn’t look much like a commander in build, but Din has been fooled before, and he won’t make the mistake of underestimating him. The vambraces around his forearms catch the light, and when he finally looks up-

The stars sitting on his brow are brilliant, but his eyes- his  _ eyes _ \- pale blue- they’re the saddest eyes he’s ever seen. Shrouded by guilt, haunted by things he’s seen. The sentiment, the loneliness rattles inside Din’s chest, but he smiles, and all those thoughts, those worries recede to the wayside. Like the sun peeking over the horizon he seems to wash those thoughts, his fears away as easily as the smile growing on his face. 

It’s stunning, frankly, and extremely disarming. Suspicion grows faster than he can cut it down, but still he asks, voice softer than he means. “ _ You’re _ the representative?”

His answering smile is shimmering gold, and his voice shocks through Din with such intensity that he almost reacts. "Unfortunately I am,  _ Mand'alor. _ "

He surprises himself by laughing. It’s only a huff of breath, but those blue eyes mark the movement of his shoulders, as observant as any warrior, and his skin crawls. Not a lie, then. The Senate’s boasting. 

“I was sent here to help, in whatever small way I can.”

That cools his blood immediately. His response is automatic, ingrained. “We do not need, or want the Republic’s help.” 

“If I recall,  _ Mand’alor _ , and I have a pretty good memory- you invited  _ me _ here.” 

His jaw ticks. The prince has a point- they  _ did _ ask him here. “To deliver a message.” 

The prince’s lips twist, hiding a smile, but even that doesn’t last as his chin tilts. He’s calculating, looking him over with small, hidden sweeps of his eyes, but he looks. A decision is made, one he isn’t privy to- and the man relaxes. His shoulders slump, posture gone soft, and a grin warms his face. At a time like this, standing surrounded by warriors- 

“If the message is ‘fuck off’, you could have merely redirected our ship.”

Heat rushes through him; anger and something shamefully close to arousal slamming into the base of his neck, and he’s standing before he can hold himself back. His people, his  _ people _ watch on with bated breath as he descends the few steps from the throne with careful, deliberate movements. He’s a king. A  _ king _ , and here is a prince, standing in his throne room surrounded by potential enemies who could cut him down. He keeps his stance even, light, even as they come nearly nose to nose, so close that his breath almost fogs the visor. Still, he tilts his head back enough to look him in the eyes- not above, but directly into his eyes, like he can see through the dark depth of his visor. 

“I  _ can _ help.”

“You are one man.” He points out, voice rough in his throat. When has someone  _ ever _ done this to him? “A prince.” 

Maybe that will knock him down a peg. 

It seems to do the trick, because gloved fingers curl on his chest, digging into the ash grey of his robe and tangling in the fabric. A flick of his eyes down to his other hand has him noting that only the right is covered- an injury? A fashion statement? His voice trembles this time when he talks. 

“I- am a survivor of the Battle of Yavin. The Battle of Endor. _ I, Mand’alor _ , am a better pilot than half the people in this room.”

He hears Paz laugh, hears others join in, but the prince’s face goes imperceptibly tight with anger, and he takes a step forward. Only the beskar covering him, the knowledge of the ten different guns waiting to shoot, keep him from drawing his own. He tracks the movement as his hands raise, one covered, one bare, as he shows them his empty palms. A peace offering, a deference to their power in the moment. Still, the motion does nothing to soothe him. The energy that remains coiled in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders and twitch of his fingers- that’s a warrior’s instinct. 

“You want me to be your enemy, but I don’t want to be yours. I want-”

Suddenly his fury mounts- he doesn’t  _ care _ about what a stranger wants. All he cares about, all he wants is him gone, and his planet left alone. He shoves him back with a hand on his chest, ignoring the way heat seeps through his gloves. 

“I don’t care.” He feels his chest heave in a breath, but he’s dropping his hand as the prince stares. “We do not need you.” 

“ _ You _ don’t need me.” It’s presumptuous, presumptuous and  _ wrong _ , but the room goes silent at it. Goes silent, and does not stir as the prince turns on his heel, blue stars winking across his brow, and leaves, back bared to the room. Like he doesn’t care about the dozen trained warriors who hold no love for him.

======================================================================================================

He snarls like a beast, eyes wild, and leaves them.

Something guilty settles hard in Din’s gut, and he watches the prince's back as he sweeps away into the crowd, unaware. Away from the medbay, back toward that shitty little house they'd shacked him up in. It had what he needed, but no doubt it wasn't what a prince was used to- and only showed how little they cared for others outside of clan and creed. The thought is bitter on his tongue as he turns to head toward the medbay.

He does it without thinking too hard- he grabs as many patches as he can get away with, tucking them in a bag to keep sand out, and ducks into the city proper. Everywhere he goes people stop, child or adult, and tip their head. Despite the months of being on Mandalore, of carrying the weight of the Darksaber he can't quite get over the way his skin crawls at being acknowledged so much. Of people knowing who he is without ever having spoken to him themselves. 

The lack of anonymity has haunted him since he rescued his son, since he wielded the Darksaber in helpless, overpowered fury and let it guide him. The dark troopers hadn't gone down easy, but the blade- the blade had whispered and guided him, and he's kept it ever since. 

The Prince's door is looming before him before he knows it, and he knocks twice, dragging in a deep, steadying breath. He sees those eyes, ever haunted, before anything else, and he feels his lips twitch when the prince almost slams the door, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. When the door doesn't close and Din says nothing, the prince mutters, voice low. " _ Mand'alor. _ "

He smiles this time- "Prince." His suspicion is cute, almost, in the way a lothcat burrowing down to pounce is cute. Jolting, the prince opens the door wider, allowing him in, and he slips past him without a thought of putting his back to him. He prickles with awareness though, as he stands in the doorway with the prince inches from him. He hears a soft click- the door closing, and then the prince is padding past him, into the living room with a cloth pressed to his side. The sight jars him, and he remembers why he came. "How's your side?" 

"Fine. Just a graze." Turning in the light, he shows off the wound: it really is just a graze, a jagged scoring along his ribs, but it still looks painful. Painful, and inflamed by wind and sand and careless elbows. Head tilting, hair flashing in the dimming light of the sun, he asks, "Did you come here just to check on me?"

"You didn't stop by the medbay." 

"I figured I'd be better off here after the twelfth elbow in my side." He's angry, angry and hurt and he grimaces at it. It was… needlessly cruel for the others to mess with him, to cause him further pain, but the prince pauses, taking a deep breath, and Din watches as he shakes his head and the anger seeps away. He's never- how he can let it go, not want to hurt  _ back-  _

He's a better person than he was given credit for. 

"I appreciate you taking time from your busy schedule to check on me, but like I said at the base, I'm fine."

An image flashes across his eyes unbidden- his pale face, drawn in pain, blood on his shaking fingers. The feeling of his heart stopping in his chest as he tried to catch him as he crumpled. Touching his face, his neck, searching for a pulse. 

He shakes the memory off, tries to imagine it's as easy to push away as the prince seems to find it. Instead he holds up the pouch, tilting his head. "So you  _ don't  _ want these?" A head tilt, twin to his own, and he explains. "Bacta patches. For the wound."

The hand with the glove- still present even now, reaches out. "I didn't say that." Din pulls the patches slightly away, just to see what he'll do. To prolong being in front of him, assured that he's alright. To see those sad eyes spark with something else. Those eyes roll, annoyed, and he tracks the movement of his hand as it drops to rest on his hip, accenting the angle. "I'm not going to beg for the bacta patches  _ you _ brought me."

"Might be interesting if you did." He murmurs, pressing his lips together after at how stupidly forward it is. It's stupid but- but the prince laughs, soft and surprised. Their eyes meet, even through the visor, and he's stuck in place as the prince talks.

"I've never begged a day in my life,  _ Mand'alor,  _ and I'm not going to start now."

===============================================================================================

“He was  _ where?” _

The Armorer regards him fondly, arms crossed over her chest. “Outside the dome. In the sand.”

He- doesn’t know how to respond to that. All he can do is stutter out, “Why?”

That earns him a shrug and another fond look. “If he’s not in his house, then he’ll be in the desert.”

“Right.” 

Why in the hell is he going out to the desert? The thought twists and twists in him, leaving him more and more confused. He’d seen the prince coming in for breakfast before, covered in sand and flushed red. The color had set off his eyes, like the black of his robes, but he’d never asked. Sand seemed to get everywhere, whether the dome closed them in or not, but he’d always seemed absolutely covered in it. 

“Find him tomorrow morning,  _ Mand’alor. _ ”

And so he did. With general directions and the correct gate, it wasn’t hard to track the faint footprints still left in the sand. The closer he got the easier it was to hear him- the quiet whoosh of his breath, so different from the wind and shuffling of sand. He’s far, farther out than he expects him to be, and he almost stumbles over him coming over the ridge of a dune. He manages to catch himself even as sand cascades down over the black lump at the bottom, and he winces. 

There isn’t a stir- not even a grunt or grumble at more sand being tossed onto him by his footsteps. 

No, he’s asleep, utterly dead to the world. He moves carefully after that, not wanting to kick more sand on the poor guy. He’s going to find it in  _ every _ nook of that robe of his- and there seem to be plenty. The robe is huge, thick, and when he crouches to pull his hood back a bit, he finds his forehead slick with sweat, hair matted down. A swear leaves him before he can help it- he’s going to die of heatstroke at this rate- even his own climate controlled armor struggles with the piercing Mandalore sun. 

“Hey.” He doesn’t want to spook him, and part of him doesn’t want to wake him either. The bags under his eyes, while better than when he first arrived, are a constant lilac. It’s easy to tell, to see the way that fatigue wears at him, but even that can’t wipe the smile off his face- even that, faced with everything else he’s been throwing at the prince, never dims that smile. 

He reaches out again, touching his shoulder, and the prince jolts under his touch. His whole body jerks in surprise, but his face is slow to change- his lashes flutter against his cheeks, lips parting as he sucks in a sharp breath. He watches it, the flushed, bleary look on his face as he finally peels his eyes open and squints. He squints, against the sun or the reflections off of his armor, and then his face lights up. A grin spreads across his face, eager and open, and his blue eyes go half lidded, heavy with lingering sleep as he reaches up.

There’s no feeling against his beskar, but he imagines the touch with a shock as fingers bump over his cheek, close enough that he can see. The prince doesn’t say anything, still grinning, before he sits up and shrugs out of his cloak. He’s drenched in sweat, shoulders shining with it and shirt stuck to him, but he stretches, languid and unhurried, and Din tracks the movement of his shirt, eyeing the strip of skin it bears before he’s wandering off. 

It takes him a dumb moment, but he gathers up the prince’s discarded cloak, drapes it over his arm, and wanders with him. He allows them to wander aimlessly for a few minutes until the prince stops, stretches again, and turns to him. His eyes are bright, devoid of any trace of sleep, and clearer than the sky above them. 

“Good morning,  _ Mand’alor.” _

Words stick in his throat, and it takes a couple of swallows before he finds the ability to speak at the dazzling way he smiles. Always disarming- always sincere. “Good morning.” 

================================================================================================

He brings the prince to the relay. There’s a New Republic call that’s been pinging for the last hour, and he just wants it to go away. So he hunts him down, finds him in the square surrounded by the foundlings- he ignores the way his heart squeezes at that. The prince doesn't hesitate when he’s asked to follow, treading along beside him without a care in the world. The blue stars on his forehead, on the circlet he chooses day after day to take off in front of them wink in the afternoon light, throwing off bits of blue. 

Reliability.

The blue casts against black, contrasting, and he hides the way that his breath catches in his throat.

Justice.

He doesn’t know what kind he’s doled out- knows near nothing about the man next to him, but he was a commander. He was in the rebellion, that much he knows, though he has no clue what he’s done. But- but he wears black like a promise, like a brand upon his skin, self inflicted and carried without complaint. He stops by the door to the relay when they get inside the Spire: it’s too invasive, too much to try and stand in on his call. The least he deserves is privacy- that, and so much more than they’ve given him. 

But it doesn’t seem to matter: the prince grabs his wrist, rolls his eyes, and drags him inside. He settles to the side, out of the way, and sits as still as he can while the holo flares to life. The prince settles into an easy stance, hands hidden behind his back, grinning, like always. 

One word makes the grin slip.

“Luke?” His  _ name _ \- not given, merely said, so he bites back the urge to say it, to taste it on his tongue. Watching, waiting, he spots the prince’s knees going weak, the weak, overwhelmed shock that has his mouth dropping open. The glimmer of tears in his eyes as he stares and stares at the holo. Drags up a chair and sits down as they talk.   
  


He turns his head away after that. 

It isn’t his right to snoop, to listen in. He clenches his jaw, tries to listen to the beating of his own heart instead of Luke. He can do this much, at least, to allow him a moment to talk, to see her again. Whoever it is, whoever is on the other side of that call is someone that he loves. A sister? A partner? That thought bites at him, leaves his heart aching for a reason he can’t piece together. His thoughts drift the longer that he sits there, glancing occasionally at Luke, at  _ Luke _ \- he shouldn’t think his name- to see him curled up, talking. He talks about all that he misses: someone named Han, Yavin- he knows that name, some planet with too many moons- he looks at Luke, finds his hand clamped over his mouth to trap a sound.

He glances away again, but strains to hear him now- to listen past himself. Something tells him that he’s nearly done- whether it’s the set of his shoulders or the tears dripping down his cheeks he can’t say. 

He turns back in time to hear Luke choke out, “I miss  _ me _ .” 

The prince lunges forward, hand slapping down on the relay and ending the call as a sob rips through him. It’s a physical thing- not just sound. His whole body jerks with it, chest heaving, and the tears that fall, rain down onto the ground are crystalline- big and fat. 

He’s up and out of his chair without another thought, crossing the room as quick as he can as Luke hunches over the relay, weeping. That grin- the grin is gone, gone entirely and he doesn’t know what to make of it when he touches Luke’s shoulder, light, as if he’ll spook him. Luke’s head whips up, circlet shining in the light and he- his  _ eyes _ . The blue is deep, deeper than he could have thought with them standing so close. They shine with tears, tracks carving down his face, and he sobs once more, overwhelmed and utterly alone, before he’s launching forward. 

One arm goes over his shoulder, the other around his ribs, and he’s clinging to him like without it he’ll drown. Din holds him back just as tight, hyper aware of his armor but not caring when fingers tangle in his cloak, yanking distantly at the fabric around his neck. Luke’s face goes into his neck, tears wetting the fabric of his flight suit, but he slips a hand into his hair, shushing him quietly. Luke only sobs harder at the contact, and for that he tightens his grip, nearly lifting him off the ground with the arm around Luke, hand splaying between his shoulder blades to press him close.

He stands there, holding him as he cries, and rocks them back and forth.

=======================================================================================================

“What is a Republic brat going to do about it?” 

He’d looked up when Luke came in- he did that more and more lately, watching him when he came in, when he left. The careful, hesitant way he carried himself. Like he was holding some terrible strength back, some terrible monster that inhabited his bones. The words that Red speaks send a bolt of anger through him- taunting, after how hard Luke has worked-

Luke’s arm comes up, strikes faster than an asp, fingers digging into the soft flesh of an exposed throat. It’s a hit like none other, and then his other hand comes up, shoves the mandalorian to the floor and- 

He should stop this. He should stop it now, before it gets too far, but Luke is already on top of him, stepping on one ankle and twisting the other in his grip until everyone in the hall can hear the man groan in pain. Until they all hear him, lips curled in a snarl, as the prince bites out a sharp, “Leave me  _ alone _ .” 

Hell breaks out around him after that- Paz goes for the prince without a thought, fist slamming against his jaw, and then they converge. Colors swirl in a sickening miasma, grouping up on the lone prince- it isn’t fair, isn’t hardly a fight at all, but he watches, entranced, as Luke gives it his all. That hand, that damn  _ gloved hand _ continues to swing, continues to go for soft parts and pressure points and weak spots, fingers straight and true the entire time. 

It isn’t until someone has a hand twisted in the black of Luke’s clothes, Luke’s face caked in blood, teeth stained with it as he grins in savage delight that he moves.

“ _ Enough _ .” He puts as much force into it as he can, speaks deep from within his chest and lets his voice resound in the room. They jerk to a stop at his command, looking toward him, and he’s walking forward, pushing through before anyone can protest. Luke’s hand wavers in the air for a second before the mando lets him go, and he’s got his hands forced to his side when he reaches him. His nose is crooked, blood vessels in his eye popped and bleeding onto the rest of his eye, but he’s in one piece. Mostly.

He drags Luke off to the medbay to get him checked out, to have his nose set and his eye looked at. While he’s there, Luke gives him a gift. His name, freely offered, freely taken, and he shouldn’t enjoy the way it makes his lips move, the way it sounds coming through his modulator. His chest burns, throat bobbing, and he goes to tell him- to share when the medic comes in. She snaps his nose back into place as Luke slumps back against him, and once he’s back with them, lashes fluttering and eyes looking around sightlessly before he focuses in on the medic rubbing bacta cream onto his face.

She sends him away with a tube of it, stumbling out into the night, and he follows along behind, waiting for him to fall. Waiting for something that isn’t going to happen; Luke’s steps are as careful and measured as always, and the cool night air seems to clear his head. He follows him home regardless, and pauses outside his door as Luke shoulders it open. He’s still there, clenching and unclenching his hands so that the nerves building up in his throat, choking him, don’t cause him to hyperventilate. 

“-want to come in?” He only hears half of Luke’s offer, but he accepts before he can think better of it, trailing behind him as they head into the dark interior of the house. Luke leaves him lingering awkwardly in the living room, peeling his bloody shirt away from him and disappearing. Water rushing into the sink fills his ears after that, and he sinks down onto the couch, burying his head in his hands for a moment. 

It’s a name. 

It’s a  _ name _ \- one that he can share. That he  _ wants _ to share. 

He’s just lifted his head from his hands, sunk back into the cushions in forced nonchalance when Luke returns. He grabs a robe on his way, wraps it around himself, and then tucks onto the couch near him, legs tucked up underneath him. He asks about his reputation, eyes bright and lips curled in a faint smile. Even now, with as much pain as he must be in, as lonely as he looks, he smiles for him. So he jokes back. He tries to get the smile to grow, and it does- it  _ does _ and he’s near giddy with the fact that he can when he spots a jagged branch of white. It skitters over Luke’s collarbone, dipping underneath his robe, and he reaches out without a care in the world.

Luke goes still underneath him as he touches, fingers dipping just below the robe and pushing it further out of the way. He devours the sight in front of him, the streaks and curls of electricity. He knows- he  _ knows _ that’s what it has to be. He’s seen enough mandalorians scarred by voltage running through beskar to ever mistake it. Faintly, he’s aware of Luke moving, but more skin, more scarring is laid bare for him and he traces shaking fingers over the different branches, lays his palm against where the webbing bunches up the tightest- on his chest, just to the left of his heart. So close to having fried through him perfectly.

He tries to get Luke to tell him what happened, but Luke stops and starts, obviously frustrated, and he shushes him again before reluctantly withdrawing his hand. Luke says that his nerves don't work right: it makes sense, perfect sense, but still some little part of Din’s brain whispers  _ what if _ ? It might be greedy, to want to know, but he asks, tilting his head up so that Luke knows he’s looking. Knows he’s watching.

“Did you feel me touching?”

“Yes.” He admits, voice husky and quiet, and were he a weaker man his toes would have curled at the sound. “My nerves like you, _ Mand’alor _ , I've never felt numb.” 

Words are bubbling up in him, clogging in his throat, but he manages to force out the one that matters. “Din.”

“Hm?” He’s confused. He forces more words out, trying to ease the question from his eyes. 

“My name is Din.” Recognition sparks in his eyes at that, burning alongside vulnerability, pain, but he smiles. He smiles, soft and warm and just for him, and his head spins. Spins and spins and doesn’t stop, especially when Luke’s hand rests over his heart, so close to where Din had been touching before, and whispers.

“Hi, Din.”

=========================================================================================================

The kid is very, very insistent that they go to see Luke. He's not sure why, not sure how he can tell that's what he wants, but he keeps looking at the door and cooing 'lu!', so here they are. He’s got a bowl in hand too, knowing that Luke has already missed breakfast in the mess.

Standing in front of his door, which he  _ knows _ is locked, he hesitates. Luke never leaves it undone unless he's out of the house, which is a little backwards, but- it's Luke, so it makes sense to him. He's got his hand raised, poised to knock when the kid lifts a tiny hand, eyes closing, and the lock clicks loudly before the door flies open. 

"Alright." He mutters, stepping inside and out of the sun. So much for being polite and knocking. 

He steps inside, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light of the living room, and nearly chokes. Luke is- upside down, balanced on his hands and dripping sweat. He can see his elbows trembling from the strain, biceps flexing and chest rising and falling with slow, even breaths. Taking another step inside, then another, he drops into a crouch, tilting his head to look at Luke's red face. Their eyes meet, as Luke is so, so good at doing, and he sees Luke's face go redder. 

"Having fun?" He can tease a bit- just a bit, though. The kid squirms in his arms, gurgling to be put down, and he lets him go, waddling across the ground to pat Luke's sweaty cheek. “You missed breakfast.”

Luke’s lips quirk, eyes sparkling. “I was busy, obviously.”

He’s careful not to move his head, but he looks up the length of Luke’s body. The sight of his chest, those scars, snags him for a minute, and he can feel his own cheeks flush. He shouldn’t stare- he shouldn’t, but he completes his slow sweep before looking back down at his face, focusing on his eyes instead. “Obviously.” 

He shifts, weight adjusting, and his breath punches out when Luke lifts one hand off the ground, holding the entirety of his weight on one arm just so he can tug on the kid’s ear. His arm flexes, muscles in his forearm twitching, and he manages to wheeze out, “Don’t fall.” 

Luke ignores the warning in lieu of saying good morning to the kid, and the sight of him on one hand, fussing over his kid shouldn’t be so damn  _ attractive _ . Luke looks at him, asks him to let Grogu stand on his feet, and while he’s nervous- nervous to have him so high, he trusts Luke. Wants to show that he trusts him, after the way he treated him. So he picks Grogu up, allows him to stand on Luke’s foot and giggle, and doesn’t worry. Luke drops out of his handstand as easily as breathing, holding Grogu to his chest, and he goes down to his level on instinct, sitting close as Luke’s arm drapes over him.

=====================================================================================================

"Let me show you." 

And he does. He follows Luke out to the port, gives him a ship just big enough for the two of them. There are protests for his safety, as there always is, but just watching Luke nimbly scaling the side of the ship, swinging up into the cockpit puts him at ease.

He's as familiar with a ship as he is a blaster. He can tell just in the way that his hands are lovingly brushing over the controls when he hoists himself up and into the seat. He's grinning, eyes bright when he turns to Din and steals his breath away.

"This makes my x-wing seem like a hunk of junk."

"It probably is." It's out before he can stop it, but Luke laughs, loud and pleased, and shoves at his shoulder. He tries to ignore the way his heart pounds at the contact, at the way he wants to lean into each touch until Luke is pressing so hard he can actually feel it. Until the beskar is nothing between them. Instead, he clears his throat and says, "if we both crash into the sun, I'm not going to be happy." 

Grin wider, smug now, Luke drops his hands to the yokes of the ship, fingers wrapping neatly around it. Has his mouth always been this dry?

"You really should have decided not to trust me  _ before _ we took off." 

He's swallowing, readying a reply and trying to get his tongue to  _ move _ when Luke takes off, slipping through the atmosphere with hardly a jolt. His weight sinks back into the seat, pressing on him, but Luke is leaning forward, breathless with anticipation. Once they're in hyperspace, cruising toward the coordinates where they lose the most shipments, his hands begin to move. They dance over the control panel of a ship he's never flown, pressing and flipping switches with the ease of a seasoned pilot. Still, it doesn’t do enough to ease his own worry at having no control, so he asks.

“Have you done this before?”

Luke’s eyes never draw away from the viewport, but his whole body is relaxed, not an ounce of fear present. “I’ve done this maneuver a hundred times.”

He can hear himself asking something else- Luke answers, he can see the prince’s lips moving, but he’s not paying close enough attention. The blue-white of hyperspace paints his face and hair in sharp angles, bringing out the curve of his cheekbones, the line of his jaw. His robes, ever black, swallow the color, but it only enhances the way that Luke’s hair glows, the way the blue of his eyes is near translucent staring out into space. 

It only enhances the way he can’t seem to pull in a full breath around him before he’s losing it again. Before his chest aches with something so fond, so yearning that he feels like a child again, desperate for attention. He notices them leave hyperspace, feels the drag of the ship swinging around, and then they’re headed back, back toward Mandalore and whatever move Luke wants to show off. He’s just gotten his head on right, his thoughts straightened when Luke grins, glancing briefly at him before explaining in chopped, breathless anticipation.

“The hardest part is the drop. Brace yourself.” 

There isn’t enough time to do more than flatten his feet against the floor and grab onto the arms of the chair before the ship shears out of hyperspace and into the gravitational pull of the sun. The readout on his hud goes haywire immediately, washing out with the heat of the sun, and he jerks his head away so that he can see  _ something _ . The something ends up being Luke, whose face is open and earnest and entirely blissed. Blissed in a way that seems completely earned- he thrives among the stars, with a yoke in his hand and the dead black of space around him.

He thrives, as they spin around the sun, once, twice, before shooting off for the planet closed. They make it one tight half turn around before they’re screaming through space, going faster and faster until Mandalore’s desolate landscape comes into view, endless swathes of dunes, and Luke laughs. His heart is thudding in his ears, roaring, and it’s all he can hear as Luke guides them back through atmo and then reaches to take his hand. 

He laughs- the sound grinds out, choked, but he laughs, amazed and stunned by the display and only a little terrified of him. That’s not something  _ he _ would attempt, and he’d attempted a lot with the  _ Crest _ over the years. No, what Luke just did is stupid, liable to get them swept away in a gravity field and fried, but that doesn’t stop him, and they land without incident back on the concrete landing pad. 

When he finally gets a good look at Luke once he manages to switch his hud over from thermal, which he doesn’t remember turning it on- he’s drenched in sweat. The regulators in his suit had adjusted, but there’s sweat on Luke’s brow, hair curling against the nape of his neck and shining along the column of his throat. His cheeks are flushed, from the heat or excitement or both, and he clings to his hands when Luke hauls them up out of the cockpit, laughing all the while. Laughing, loud and happy- it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard, and he’s stunned. By his skill, by his joy, by  _ him. _ He’s still stunned when they drop out of the ship, and he remembers abruptly what Luke had said when they first met.

_ I am a better pilot than half the people in this room. _

If he didn’t believe him before he sure as hell does  _ now _ . He believes every bit of worthless bragging or showmanship. He finds, as he stares at Luke while he tells them that they’re using gravity to speed them up, that he’s an honest man. Prone to bragging, maybe, but only about what’s  _ true. _

=========================================================================================================

“I want you here now.”

He listens to his footsteps, moves when Luke does- his footsteps betray him first: even as light as he is, there’s no way to hide the way that he hops lightly onto his toes. He reaches out for him, turning, but Luke is already moving, ducking under his hand as if he’d expected this, long, long before. 

He watches him this time, letting him set the pace, and he isn’t disappointed. Luke is  _ everything _ on the offensive- bold and confident and overflowing with energy. His eyes are bright, laser focused, and this,  _ this _ is what he wants. THe fluid movement as Luke ducks underneath swings, as he strikes back, finding all of the soft points that he can. He hits him hard and fast, into his ribs, against the jut of his hip, so close to his throat that he has a flashback to the mess hall, when Luke had taken an entire group of mandalorians and had only grinned.

He’s grinning now as his hand flies for his throat again, and it’s hard to dodge back, to keep his breath in his lungs. He’s insistent in a way that din hasn’t seen before- his hud can hardly keep up with his speed, with his ferocity, and he feels clumsy in comparison. That’s something he doesn't think he would ever have experienced. He’s honed to a fine edge, has trained since he was a child to fight, to be a weapon, but Luke? 

Luke  _ dances _ around him without a care, and he wonders how much he holds back, how much he keeps himself locked away for the sake of seeming weak. Of hiding the toned muscle of his arms, the firm strength in his body that carries him, that commands whatever space he’s in. He’s slim, smaller than half of the mandalorians he knows, but already he fights better than half of them. Better than friends who he watched train, trained  _ with _ . 

But he’s also distracting.

Distracting and beautiful. His back hits the mat as a leg sweeps him off his feet, and his helmet clangs against the floor lightly as Luke steps up. His boot, worn by sand, presses down over the iron heart on his chest, adding more and more pressure, and he’s struck by it. By the sight of him, the length of his legs, the rise and fall of his chest as he stands over him, grinning. Red flushes across his cheeks, drawing out the warm undertones in his skin- it sets off his eyes, which in turn sets Din’s head spinning. 

He has to dizzying thought suddenly of him in armor- beskar glittering in the sun, that same stupid grin on his face and staff in hand. They haven’t fought with weapons yet, haven’t gotten there, but he can imagine it so vividly that he wonders if the image has been planted. Luke looks liable to say something, something smug and pleased curling his lips, and he reaches up to grab his ankle, to wipe that look away. The prince goes flying with one well timed yank, and he tries to ignore the ‘oof’ that he lets out when he lands across the mat, disoriented by the sudden movement.

Rolling to his feet he shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders, and prepares for the next attack. An attack that he has to begin, pushing back onto the offensive to see how he can adjust. He’s obviously more comfortable being the one attacking, in making the first move, so he takes that away. He pushes and pushes hard, crowding into his space and not letting him get a breather for even a second. 

Shots are watched carefully, not too much strength, too much impact. A normal body can only take so much, he knows, and without beskar, without armor, he’s liable to bruise, to break something. The plates on the back of his hand are dangerous in fistfights- there isn’t enough material to cause any true damage, but the edge can gouge into any soft places, and he doesn’t want to cause permanent damage. So he focuses on keeping his hits just soft enough to avoid that while still landing true. Pain only seems to wake Luke up though, to hone him into the fight ahead.

In the end, it still doesn’t seem to matter. His stamina isn’t near where it should be, and on one sloppy, weakened punch he catches his wrist, twisting his arm up and behind his back as they go down. His kneepads hit the floor first, then Luke’s hand, and then his shoulders as he presses him into the mat. The sight, the feeling of Luke below him is as distracting as it is pleasing, and he’s having a hard time getting his throat, his jaw, his mouth to work in the way that it’s supposed to. “You hold back.” 

He finally manages to force the words out, and Luke’s voice is soft, breathy with something like anticipation and heat shoots down his spine. “I hold back on a lot of things.”

“Don’t.” He demands it immediately- he wants everything that Luke will give. His strength, his ferocity, his attention. He wants it all, as much as Luke can give. 

But Luke laughs, choked with surprise, and turns his head to pin him with a look. A look that sends heat racing over his skin, that has his own heart beating faster and faster in his chest. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.” A warning, Din knows it’s a warning, but he pushes this time.

“You keep saying that.” He murmurs, letting his weight bear down as Luke’s legs go wide. He wants to trace the seam of his pants up the inside of his thigh, wants to let his hands wander. He wants to rip the helmet off and bite at the back of his neck just to feel him shudder. But he can’t- he  _ can’t _ , and Luke’s face is too open, too honest to his own wants. “What  _ am _ I asking for?” 

Luke’s eager, open expression slams shut. 

=========================================================================================================


End file.
